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The February wind in Montreal does not just blow; it bites with the focused intensity of a prehistoric predator. It is 2005, and the slush on the corners of Boulevard Saint-Laurent has frozen into jagged, grey-black sculptures that crunch under the weight of three sets of winter boots. Jacob Two-Two, bundled in a parka that seems three sizes too large, huffs a cloud of condensation into the frigid air.
"We need to do something grown-up today, Buford. Something grown-up," Jacob says, his voice muffled by a thick wool scarf. He looks at his best friend, Buford Pugh, whose nose is a vibrant shade of sunset pink against his pale, worried face.
"I agree," Buford says, adjusting his thick goggles, which are currently fogging up from the bottom up. "My cousin Barnaby says that grown-ups spend their Saturday afternoons doing things of grave importance, like discussing interest rates or buying artisanal cheeses that smell like old gym socks. Once, Barnaby ate a piece of blue cheese so old he actually saw through time for three seconds. He said it tasted like copper and regret."
Walking three paces ahead of them, Renée Ratelle stops short, her yellow boots skidding slightly on a patch of black ice. She turns around, her face framed by a faux-fur hood, her expression one of sharp, Gallic suspicion.
"And what is dis?" she asks, her French-Canadian accent thick and sharp as a kitchen knife. "You two are whispering like small les souris—little mice—behind my back. We are supposed to go to de arcade to play de Dance Dance Revolution. I 'ave practiced my steps for t’ree nights!"
Jacob shakes his head firmly, his small hands stuffed deep into his pockets. "Arcades are for children, Renee. For children. We are looking for a more sophisticated atmosphere. A sophisticated atmosphere."
Buford nods, picking a frozen piece of purple lint off his mitten. "Exactly. We are seeking intellectual stimulation. Did you know that the human brain is seventy-three percent water? If we spend all day playing video games, I’m worried my brain-water might stagnate and grow a film of algae, like the pond behind the sewage treatment plant. I don't want a swampy head, Jacob."
Renée rolls her eyes so hard it looks physically painful. "Sophistiqué? You? Jacob, you still 'ave peanut butter on your chin from de breakfast. And Buford, your 'at is on backward."
"That's part of the look," Buford insists, though he quickly reaches up to spin his toque around so the pom-pom sits correctly.
They reach the steps of the Montreal Children's Library, a grand stone building that feels heavy with the weight of a million silent words. Jacob sees his opening. He knows Renée’s competitive nature is her Achilles' heel.
"Well, Renee, we were going to go inside to study the most complex era of biological history," Jacob says, his eyes wide with feigned seriousness. "The Cambrian Period. But it might be too difficult for you. Too difficult for you."
Renée’s eyes narrow into slits. "Too difficult for me? Moi? I am de smartest girl in de school! I can spell 'encyclopedia' in two languages, even de hard ones!"
"The Cambrian explosion," Buford chimes in, sensing the trap closing. "A time of incredible evolutionary development. My uncle Theodore says he feels like he’s living in a personal Cambrian explosion every time he tries a new brand of high-fiber cereal. It’s a very messy, very loud process."
"Fine!" Renée huffs, stomping toward the heavy oak doors, her yellow boots clattering on the salt-stained stone. "I will show you. I will go to de science section and I will find de biggest, most dusty book on dis... dis 'Cambrian' t'ing. While I am becoming a genius, you two can sit and look at de picture books about de fire trucks!"
She disappears inside, the heavy door thudding shut with a sound like a falling gavel. Jacob and Buford share a look of profound relief.
"That worked perfectly, Buford. Worked perfectly," Jacob says, turning toward the street. "Now, let’s go to that cafe on the corner. The one where they serve the coffee that’s so strong it makes your teeth vibrate. That’s what grown-ups do. What grown-ups do."
They spend the next hour in a small, dimly lit cafe smelling of roasted beans and wet coats, sitting on stools that are far too high for their legs to reach the footrests. They order two "Adult Hot Chocolates"—which the barista informs them with a smirk is just regular hot chocolate with extra foam—and try to look brooding and contemplative.
"I feel older already," Buford whispers, staring intensely at a brown sugar packet. "I feel so mature that I might start worrying about my mortgage. I don't even have a mortgage, Jacob, but I can feel the phantom stress of one in my lower back. Or maybe that's just the stool."
However, as the sun begins to dip lower in the winter sky, casting long, bruised shadows across the snowy streets of Plateau Mont-Royal, the novelty of being "grown-up" begins to wane. The cafe is loud, the foam on their cocoa has dissolved into a murky film, and the silence between them grows heavy.
"Maybe we should check on Renee," Jacob says, shifting uncomfortably. "Check on Renee."
Buford jumps down immediately, his boots hitting the linoleum with a thud. "Yes. Quickly. I have a bad feeling. My left pinky toe is itching, and according to my Great Aunt Gertrude, an itchy toe in the late afternoon signifies either a change in the weather or that someone you know has been swallowed by a giant squid. And given that we left Renee in a building full of giant books, the squid is a distinct possibility."
They rush back to the library, the cold air stinging their cheeks like needles. Inside, the silence is oppressive. They head straight for the science section, but the aisles are empty. The tall shelves of biology and paleontology books tower over them like ancient, dusty monoliths.
"Renee?" Jacob calls out, his voice a tiny squeak in the vast, vaulted hall. "Renee? Renee?"
They check the reference desk. They check the reading nooks. They even check the oversized atlas section where Buford briefly gets distracted by a map of the ocean floor.
"She's gone," Buford says, his voice trembling. "She's been lost to the archives. She’s probably been filed away under 'R' for 'Retelle' or 'M' for 'Missing Friend.' Did you know that some libraries are built on ancient ley lines? She might have stepped through a magical portal, and now she's in 17th-century France, trying to explain to a King why she’s wearing rubber boots."
Jacob feels a pang of genuine guilt in his chest. "We shouldn't have left her, Buford. Shouldn't have left her."
Suddenly, a shadow falls over them from behind a display of prehistoric fossils. A familiar, sharp voice cuts through the gloom.
"You are very loud for a place of learning," Renée says, stepping out from behind a life-sized cardboard cutout of a Trilobite. She is holding a massive, leather-bound tome, and her eyes are bright with an unsettling, academic intensity.
"Renee! You're okay!" Jacob exclaims. "You're okay!"
"Of course I am okay," she says, looking at them with a mixture of pity and newfound authority. "While you two were probably eating de candy and acting like les bébés, I 'ave been traveling back five hundred million years."
She slams the book open onto a nearby wooden table, pointing to a sketch of a creature that looks like a fever dream made of spikes and tentacles.
"Did you know," she begins, her accent rolling over the syllables with scholarly precision, "dat de Hallucigenia gets its name due to de bizarre and dream-like appearance of de animal? It has seven pairs of tentacle-walking legs and spikes on its back. It is so strange dat for many years, de scientists, dey had it upside down and backward! Imagine! Walking on your spikes!" She looks at them, her chin tilted up. "It is a Cambrian creature. It does not care about your 'grown-up' coffee. It only cares about surviving in a world of madness. Like me."
Buford leans in, mesmerized by the strange illustration. "It looks like a toothbrush that's had a nervous breakdown. I love it. I want to be its friend."
Jacob smiles, feeling the guilt melt away into the familiar warmth of their group. "It's better than the cafe, Renee. Better than the cafe."
"D'accord," Renée says, closing the book with a satisfied, heavy snap. "Now, since I am de expert on de prehistoric monsters, I decide what we do next. We go to de arcade, and I will play de Dance Dance Revolution like a Hallucigenia—with many legs and great ferocity! You will see!"
As they walk back out into the Montreal night, the cold doesn't seem quite so biting. They aren't grown-ups, not yet, but as they argue about whether a giant squid could beat a Hallucigenia in a wrestling match, they realize they are exactly where they need to be.